


Grass Below, Sky Above

by SenkoWakimarin



Series: Author's Recommendations [21]
Category: Marvel (Comics), Punisher (Comics), Wolverine (Comics)
Genre: M/M, Outdoor Sex, Self-Indulgent, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-01
Updated: 2019-05-01
Packaged: 2020-02-10 23:24:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18670477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SenkoWakimarin/pseuds/SenkoWakimarin
Summary: They've got their own paths to walk, but they can take advantage of where those paths converge.





	Grass Below, Sky Above

**Author's Note:**

  * For [inbox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inbox/gifts).



> I looked and looked and I could not find this ship as a tag yet. Hopefully I didn't fuck that up. Also I've never tried to write Logan before, so... hopefully I didn't fuck THAT up either.
> 
> This is mostly for me, but also for Inbox, who said Dumb and Dumbisher rights!

“You like that?”

It’s a superfluous question, and one he doesn’t expect an answer to. In the very best of times, Frank leans more toward monosyllabic, if not outright verbless, responses. Not a chatterbox.

It’s one of his better features.

Frank finds his voice though. Rough, quiet, but intent. “Yeah,” he says, and when Logan slows for a moment, he gets a heel kicked into his kidney for the trouble. “C’mon.”

Not a chatterbox. Man of action.

Logan bares his teeth in a grin, and feels the hands on him tighten. Castle smells like sweat and blood and pent up aggression, he smells like cheap coffee and gun oil, he smells like a man getting his brains fucked out and still demanding more. Logan likes that about him too.

Frank’s Catholic. Calls himself lapsed, like he can outgrow the rituals of his upbringing by stubborn insistence to the contrary, but Logan knows he’ll smell that soon enough, the guilt, the self-hatred Catholic men seem to wear like a shitty cologne. Castle can murder a hundred men and come away without a whiff of that guilt, but throw him a fuck and he’s wretched with himself about it for hours.

Logan thinks it’s cuz he doesn’t really like killing. To him, murder’s just a job, not something to love or hate, just something needs doing. Logan appreciates _that_ , too.

Beneath him, Frank’s gone red-faced and desperate, his exhales hitching around these sweet, gaspy little bitch-noises that make Logan wish he could keep him here a few hours, few days maybe. Castle’s got pretty boy good looks, if you like stubbly linebacker jawlines and tousled coal-dark hair, which Logan happens to. Even if his face were a mess, his body is tall and broad and sculpted. Big and tough and still yielding.

When Logan digs in and starts really railing him, giving it hot and hard the way Frank’s been demanding, those long lashes dust down, eyes closing as his head tips back, throat bared. It’s hard not to think about how vulnerable a man is, splayed out under him like this, dick hard, hands clawing into grass and leaves, lips parted to pant out more of those eager, hungry sounds. Vulnerable, killable, but Logan knows even like this, if he felt threatened, Frank could put up some kind of fight, make himself dangerous. Compliant but never complacent.  

Frank’s getting close, Logan can feel it in the tension of his hands, the shaking of his breath, smell it on him. Despite what porn would have a man believe, most folks can’t come from penetration alone, not easy anyway. Logan knows by now that if he tells Castle to keep his hands where they are -- on his shoulders -- Castle will obey, and Logan hasn’t touched his dick since he’d gotten Frank on his back.

Drawing it out is more fun, makes a good thing last. When Logan slows down again, just grinding into Frank for a moment, not enough, not what he wants, Frank moans. His brow creases and his mouth falls open, and he moans, distressed and denied and desperate. Logan bares his teeth again, and this time when Frank tries to spur him with his heels he growls, goes still entirely.

“You want more, Castle,” he asks, lets his voice go low and rumbling, the way he knows Frank likes it. His pulse, usually pretty steady, spikes when Logan talks that way, not scared but thrilled. Frank is never scared of Logan, even when he oughta be. “Go on, tell me you want it.”

He expects a fight. Nine times of ten it’s what he’d get, saying shit like that, pushing Frank, making him admit how bad he wants to get fucked.

He expects a fight so he braces one rough palm against the firm expanse of Frank’s chest, not quite a threat but nearly. He could bring out the claws, not even fully unsheathe them, and that’d be it, snikt, no more Punisher.

He expects a fight, but Frank goes lax, stops clinging, rocking against the grass, worrying his lip. Logan can smell it when the split breaks open again.

“C’mon,” Frank breaths, two syllables broken around a thin little whine. “You know ‘s good, you know I wannit, c’mon.”

His nails, blunt, pitiful things, dig shallow crescents into Logan’s shoulders, not even deep enough to break the skin. His eyes are open again, desperate as the silvery gasp of his breath. His legs spread to either side, feet no longer hooked around Logan’s waist, no longer trying to kick him into gear. With his feet braced against the ground, the angle changes, and it’s good. Frank’s not the only one breathing heavy now.

“Say it nice, Frank,” he goads, working up that slow grind again, breathing the intoxicating scent of sweat and sex and Frank’s leaking cock. “Say please.”

Logan doesn’t know why he gambles like this. Castle is a touchy bastard, and even getting fucked just right doesn’t change that particular fact much at all, not every time. Logan likes taunting Frank though, likes the strain it puts in the man, the way it obviously works for him and the way he clearly wishes it didn’t. Sometimes Logan pushes too hard and Castle shuts down; they go right back to snarling at one another.

Logan likes this better.

The subtle hitch of Frank’s hips, the offering, again, of that neck. He likes how Frank works the words silently at first before finally finding a voice to put behind them.

“Please just fuck me,” he pants out. “Let me come. Make me. C’mon. Please.”

This time, Logan doesn’t let up. He fucks Frank until the breathy, eager noises he’s making get strength behind them, until Frank is moaning outright, working his thighs to rock into the rapid, passionate snap of Logan’s hips.

It takes a little maneuvering to get a hand between them, finding Frank hot and hard, precum oozing slick and messy, but it’s worth the effort just for the way Frank jerks hard against him. There’s no rhythm to the motion, just bald want, and from a guy who tries so hard to act like he’s got all his wants locked down, seeing him like this is really something fine.

Frank is close again, it won’t take much. Logan thinks about slowing down, dragging it out -- they don’t do this near often enough for how good it is for both of them -- but he doesn’t. His own orgasm is prowling steadily closer, building, and he’s more interested in chasing it than torturing Castle.

“In you or on you,” he growls, really just to hear and feel the way Castle shudders and gasps at the sound, the choice.

They’re miles from any shower, any option for easy clean-up, but Logan doesn’t think that’s much on Frank’s mind when he digs his fingers harder against Logan’s shoulders and grinds out a low, eager “inside, in, c’mon, c’mon.”

Some folks like to tease, put their own pleasure on the back burner to make it last longer. The two of them have done that plenty, dragged it out until there’s nothing left to drag.

This ain’t that, though; there’s no play in Frank’s hazy, fucked out gaze, no bait, nothing but a very gratifying hunger. Logan likes _that_ about Frank too; he wants what he wants, and he goes after it. Frank’s fingers digging into the meat of him, clutching him like a life line as his eyes roll back, head dropped against the matted grass, hips rolling against Logan’s; it’s a pretty picture, messy, and the way Frank chokes on his own pleased noises as he comes all over Logan’s hand is damned good.

Nothing about this is sentimental. Neither of them live that way; they both got their own paths, just take advantage of the moments when those paths converge. Frank’s gonna walk away from this bruised and sore, covered in marks that’re only half from fucking, and if anyone were to ask about any injury -- which is unlikely -- Logan imagines he’d say it was from some fight or another.

This doesn’t stop him from bracing both hands on either side of Frank’s head, folding the tall bastard in half so he can fuck him and smother those hitching moans with his own mouth. Castle can be a stubborn, standoffish, violent jackass, but like this he’s all compliance and greedy, eager hands. Logan likes the feeling of strong fingers curling into his coarse hair, keeping him, and he likes the way Castle whines a little when he bites.

Orgasm sweeps up on him, and he ruts into Frank, keeps him pinned even after he’s spent, growling his contentment as they kiss. Castle accepts this for a while, compliant, and then shoves at Logan with the heel of his hand.

“Off,” he grunts, shoving again. “You weigh a fuckin’ ton and you taste like a goddamn ashtray.”

For all the bluster he puts on, he still moans a low, pleased sound when Logan ducks his head and bites at his throat. He doesn’t seem in any rush to get cleaned up and dressed even after Logan finally pulls away. He just lays there and picks at the dirt under his nails until Logan throws his torn shirt at him, and even then he just lays there for a second, breathing. The whole area reeks of sweat and sex and satisfaction, but Logan doesn’t think that’s what’s distracting Frank.

“You good?” He asks finally, hitching his belt back properly through the loops and watching Castle use the ruined shirt to swab come off his stomach, amused by the mild distaste on the man’s face.

“Just glad we didn’t run into each other in fuckin’ February,” Frank says. “Gettin’ plowed into the snow ain’t high on my to-do list.”

And that’s maybe what Logan likes best about Frank; the man’s so damn practical minded all he can do is laugh.


End file.
